


Exile's Winter

by mirroredinkparadox



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirroredinkparadox/pseuds/mirroredinkparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slaughter lingered amidst the icy mountains, exiled from paradise, but not forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exile's Winter

The snow fell heavily, coating every surface, weighing it down under misery as the world died. But the mountains were always cold, their misery eternal, spring a wishful thought, fleeting. Here, death always reigned, and never before now had it been so clear.

Wings beat almost lazily as the vultures swarmed, slapping the gathered wolves back. A short battle ensued, and several of the birds took flight, shocked by the ferocity of the beasts below. No one bird left without wounds, missing feathers, gouged chests, broken legs. Two did not rise from the stained snow. The wolves howled, their victory hanging in the air like a predator in its own right. A twig snapped somewhere behind them in the skeletal woods, but no wolf moved, devouring the barely frozen body.

He strode into the center of the pack, gauntlet-covered hands trailing through thick fur, resting on the shoulder of the alpha. Sharp black protrusions covered broad shoulders and wound down muscled arms, forming a ring around each wrist. Blood covered most of the metal, staining the leather straps a rusty color. The helmet dangled from long fingers, its dragon crest roaring its arrogant triumph. Pale skin also bore the mark of war, though no scars marred the perfection of his face, only blood. No weapons graced his form – he had never needed them. The wolves moved away from the kill, instead surrounding the man, circling him, whining and snapping at his hands and ankles, the need to feed falling back in their minds, overshadowed by the urge to kill. He lifted his face to the cloud choked sky and loosed a blood curdling howl, immediately answered by his pack. It echoed, born on the wind's back to another mountain, so many worlds away, where the elite froze, horror turning their blood to ice, fear settling on their shoulders like a dark mantle. Slaughter had not died.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a mindless Ares fan and needed to write this. -slinks away-


End file.
